Adversaries
by Bellatrix Black
Summary: One-shot. ‘She'd slapped him in third year, and it had stung so much that his cheek had ached for over a week.’ In which Hermione realises that Draco is right - sometimes. [slight Draco & Hermione]


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter in any way, shape or form. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

_It's a very funny thing about life; if you refuse to accept anything but the best, you very often get it.   
~ William Somerset Maugham_

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She had never wanted to be one of the beautiful people. The Yule-Ball aside, she had never set herself out to be dazzling and charming and everything else that people expected of smart young witches. 

What did charm and grace matter when you were the most clever witch in your school? And what's more, when everybody knew you as that. And she had adventures and friends, she had such high grades and standards. She spent her nights in the common room pouring over books, diagrams and Harry and Ron's homework, making sure everything was perfect before she sauntered off to sleep.

Sure, there were times where all she wanted was release and relaxation. After all, don't we all have them? But she was clever enough to know that there was a time and place for everything and while at school, her place was with her studies.

***

"You're a bastard, Malfoy," she hissed, trying to pry her History of Magic homework out of his pale and prude hand. 

"A bastard who's rather bored," he drawled, wrenching his hand away and sitting himself down on one of the nearest tables. She gritted her teeth, her dark brown eyes glaring at the unphased teenager. He didn't seem to notice at all though, and instead continued to skim the first few lines of her work.

"Give it back!" she commanded, fury burning in her eyes. He merely shook his head nonchalantly and stole a quill off of the table.

***

He was selfish, that much was true. A Malfoy to smite all Malfoys, with a heart of ice and a soul full of loathing for anyone who dared disagree with him. Lucius had taught him well, that was for sure. 

And he spent his days with his friends, causing mayhem for little first years and whoever were to dare cross his path and que his anger. Without his father nearby, he's more prone to fits of rage and nobody - not even Crabbe or Goyle - can stop him when he sets his mind to something.

Family values - they're probably the only things he treasures. All he's ever known and all he'll ever trust are the laws and rules his father had laid out for him from the moment he was born. Even to this day, he still remembers Lucius' booming voice barking instructions:

_"You must not", "You shall not", "You are not"._

The words of a monster. The words of the pure. To this very day he still trusts and believes in them. They're what keep him alive, they're what keep him sane. They're the only explanations and answers for the countless choices and questions he has to face each day.

***

His eyes skimmed the parchment once more and slowly he reached behind him towards an inkpot. His timid fingers uncorked it behind his back and dipped the long feather quill into the thin, blue ink.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice crisp and weary. Her eyes follow his arm, which is folded behind his back, and he slowly pulls it into view, only to reveal a ready quill.

"I'm not doing anything, Granger," said Draco plainly. "At least not anything you need to worry about."

Her eyes widened with alarm as he moved the quill towards her homework and she let out a strangled yelp, dashing forward to try and pull it away. He merely slid off of the table and rounded a stack of books, moving through the library with much grace and poise in his distracted state.

The quill he reared etched across her parchment sharply and she gasped, restraining herself from shouting to the heavens about her disapproval. He was detroying her work. He was taking her long hours in the common room and banishing them with the flick of a quill. What had he written? Something crude and disgusting, no doubt.

Surely she could magic away whatever he had done, right? 

'Yes,' she had told herself. 'Whatever he's written, I'll remove it once I get my work back.'

***

And they were enemies, that much was certain. He was a pureblood, a determined one at that, one who would surely fight for his roots and who would forever stand the epitome of what is good and righteous in this world. 

Different people had different ideals. While Harry Potter and every other half-blood and Mudblood in existence cared only about preserving life, he and almost all other purebloods only cared for preserving what was bequeathed to them through centuries of struggle and loss.

And she was a Muggle-born. And for what it was worth, giving the Gryffindor some credit of course, she wasn't like all the other Muggle-borns that had decked the halls of Hogwarts. She didn't use her heritage as an excuse for not knowing so and so matters, but rather learnt everything beforehand so she would never have to make herself seem out of place.

***

"Dammit Malfoy," she raged, trying to keep a damper on her voice long enough to find him amond the never ending bookshelves. "Come back here with my homework!"

"Hold on a second, Granger," his muffled voice echoed around her. "Ah, there."

And suddenly he reappeared in front of her, his quill no longer in hand and a very thin frown on his face. He thrust the parchment back into her hands and fained somewhat of a smile. Anxiously, she turned the parchment over and quickly inspected it for whatever scathing remark he had dared emblazen all over her beautiful work.

"I swear, you're so bloody protective of a little parchment," he muttered, folding his arms and smirking smugly. Her eyes traced over the scriptive writing on the old, browned paper and he leant himself against the nearest bookcase, raising his eyebrows in wait of her next bout of anger.

***

He had always hated her, because she always got what she wanted. She was Potter's friend, she was the top of their class and she was possibly the smartest witch to grace Hogwarts' halls since Rowena Ravenclaw herself. 

She seemed to have the most extraordinary quality of stubbornness and sympathy, all rolled into one. And he'd seen on more than one occasion, her leaniency towards her school chums. She was always so strict, yet lenient when the time was appropriate. 

She'd slapped him in third year, and it had stung so much that his cheek had ached for over a week. And he'd silently cursed her for months for making a fool of him, but secretly he'd been excited. Never had he imagined the calm, pessimistic Granger to have such audacity as to slap a fellow student.

***

"What is this..." she said under her breath, looking up at his pale, pointed face. Expressionless and silent, he reached out and handed her the long black quill.

***

They're not friends, they're adversaries. They're not the same, they're different. Darkness and light, good and bad, pure and tainted. Such opposites that existed in the world, merely to give the other meaning and purpose.

He hates her and is not afraid to say it.

She doesn't trust him and makes it no secret.

***

"I've told you once and I'll tell you again," he muttered surely. "You're not always right, Granger."

She nodded slowly, her eyes still tracing over her beloved parchment. She looks up and steps away from him, a dark scowl capturing her small, petite face. Her brown eyes narrowed in contempt and loathing, not stunning the young Slytherin in the least.

***

Right and wrong. Good and bad. What's the difference? Everything 

***

"I don't need your help," she spat, before tossing the quill at him.

"Help?" he proclaimed in mock surprise. "Since when the hell would I help you, Mudblood?"

With that said, he turned on his heel and stormed away. Hermione watched his retreating back until she could no longer see him and quickly headed out of that section of the library, returning to her table where all her belongings sat limply.

She threw herself down in her chair and inspected her homework closely, before taking out her wand and preparing to remove all of Draco's silly comments and statements from her parchment.

After all, his comments had been silly. She was sure that the Goblin Rebellion had occured in the 1500s, rather than his testily pointed out correction of the 1600s. No, wait. That can't be right. And she after checking her old battered books, a frown returned to Hermione's face. 

Bitterly and with much hesitation, she decided that taking Draco's corrections to heart wouldn't hurt. She wouldn't be doing anything wrong or immoral. She wouldn't be cheating or getting help from another student - which was something she seldom did.

After all, since when the hell would he help a Mudblood?

**~Fin**


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